Lessons in Code
by fieryphrazes
Summary: Morse meets a very modern reporter and, well, they hit it off despite the friction their jobs sometimes cause them.
1. Chapter 1

_This is my first-ever fanfiction, so... let me know what you think? Obviously I have no rights to Endeavour characters, plots, etc. _

"Miss Frazil?" Morse said as he opened the door to the Oxford Mail. Usually the editor was the only one in the building, so he assumed the dark hair in the center of the office was his sometimes-colleague. He walked toward her, but stopped when she turned around. It was not Miss Frazil.

"I'm afraid she's gone out for lunch. Can I help you?" the not-Frazil young lady said.

Morse looked her up and down. Tall, modern. Dark. She had short hair like that model, the stick-thin one everyone was on about these days. She wore trousers, even at work. Pretty, if you liked that sort of thing, he decided.

"Detective Constable Morse, City Police. I have a question for her about an old edition. Maybe you would know? I'm looking up a death from '55."

"Oh, I'm afraid I won't do you any good there. I've only been in Oxford for two years," she explained with a shrug. "I can have her ring you when she gets back."

"If you could. She has the number," Morse halfway turned to go, then turned back. "What did you say your name was?"

"I don't think I said," she smiled, almost cautiously, then held out her hand to Morse. "Tuesday Allison."

They shook hands.

"Tuesday Allison, not Allison Tuesday?" he asked. How many days of the week could one man know in one town?

A short, practiced laugh, and then, "Common mistake. And before you ask, I was born on a Saturday."

Morse considered her for a moment before nodding, saying a quick thank you, and turning to the door.

"Detective," she called after him. "Shall I take your number down, just in case Dorothea's lost it?"

Morse smiled to himself. Maybe he liked that sort of thing.


	2. Chapter 2

Tuesday called him three days after they met. She called his office, not the home number he'd given her. It was business.

"Morse, I'm afraid I have rather a difficult question for you," she said as soon as he answered.

He wasn't completely sure what to say; and afterwards he couldn't remember exactly what he did say, but she got her answer.

That's how Morse learned how Tuesday Allison got what she wanted: she asked. She asked until she got it. She had the number for his flat, and now she had the biggest story of the week. Bright wouldn't be pleased when he saw the Mail and the information Morse had given Miss Allison. He hadn't meant to say a thing, but it was damned hard not to say a thing when she asked and then waited. And waited and waited. The woman had no sense of awkwardness, the opposite of Morse. No need to fill the silence. She let others do that for her, and then she used the things they said. A damned good reporter.

He didn't know what had gotten into him. He'd practically been daydreaming at his desk, and not about the usual – elaborate schemes that could, and often did, connect the cases he and Thursday worked on. No, today it had been dark hair, long legs, and a reporter's notebook.


	3. Chapter 3

He didn't hear anything from her for a week or more. He was at a crime scene when she showed up, wearing galoshes. She had a pencil behind one ear and a cigarette behind the other.

"Morse!" she said. "Just the man I wanted to see. Can you tell me what's going on here?" She rummaged in her large coat pocket and pulled out a notebook, flipped the cover, and smiled at him expectantly as she took down the pencil from one ear.

"No, no. I'm done having chats with you," Morse said to her, almost teasing. "There's only so much trouble a man can stand."

"I assure you, a woman can stand much more," Tuesday Allison almost snapped at him, then immediately looked contrite. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause trouble for you, but it's my job to find out what's going on."

Morse nodded. He understood, and he hoped they could find a happy medium, as he and Miss Frazil had. A place where they could help each other out, where they could trust each other.

Morse put his hands in his pockets and looked down at his toes. He understood, but he'd learned his lesson. No more filling the silence. Tuesday lit up a bit.

"Have a drink tonight?" she asked him. Morse looked up from the pavement and smiled at her, just a bit.

"Yeah, alright."

Tuesday wrote something on her pad and tore the sheet in half. She handed the loose bit to Morse.

"Come round at eight," she said before she turned and walked away.

Morse could have sworn she winked.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so uncertain before a date. Tuesday had already proven their work could be a battleground, but he didn't really believe she was luring him into a sense of security to make him spill police secrets. He could sense that was too underhanded, too scheming for her. If she wanted to know something, she would ask. And, he supposed, if she wanted to go for a drink, she'd ask for that. Certainly not the first girl to ask, but the most unapologetic he'd encountered. Usually a girl would try to make you think it was your idea, or hint at it but hold back from saying the actual words. Not the case with Tuesday.

Morse wondered if she said everything she meant.

He knocked on her door at five past. It was a neighborhood he knew from his days as a student. Mostly post-grads, not many from his crowd, but there was a pub he'd always liked just around the corner. Maybe that was their destination.

"Morse, you're late," she said as she answered the door, putting on a disappointed tone that was obviously mocking. He wasn't sure if it was mocking him or herself just yet.

He smiled. "Not an intentional slight, I assure you."

"Well, come in," she said, standing aside to let him pass. They were in a narrow foyer with steps just in front of them. She started up and he followed close behind. She was wearing trousers again, with flat shoes. Morse shook his head just a little bit at her.

"As it happens, I was expecting you to be much later. Or maybe I'd forgotten that I told you eight and not nine," Tuesday said as they climbed. They stopped on the first landing, where Tuesday's door was still ajar. "In you get," she said and gave him the smallest push.

Morse looked around the flat. Small, warm. Bright colors were unusual in Oxford rooms. Too much trouble to paint it back to the taupe the landladies all favored. But Tuesday had put up orange and red scarves on most the wall; they were tacked every which way, covering the plaster, which was undoubtedly cracking and dingy.

"What'll you have?" she asked him.

"Scotch?" Morse asked, and she nodded.

Two minutes later he was holding a hearty drink, sitting stiffly on the sofa with Tuesday curled up in the seat next to him.

"You aren't very talkative, are you?" she asked. "At first I thought it was a product of that questioning I gave you, but I think it's just your way."

Morse shrugged. "I talk when I've something to say," he told her.

He wasn't quite sure how it happened, but Tuesday was suddenly much closer than she had been. Maybe the way she'd been sitting had her wound up like a spring, and she suddenly uncoiled. He wasn't sure, but she was quite close to his face in a split second.

"You might be surprised, but I'm not much of a talker, either," she said. She was right; Morse was surprised. In fact, he didn't think he believed her at all. "It's a hat I put on. My work hat. I'm actually quite shy." She smiled wickedly. He didn't believe her for a second.

He put his scotch down on the table beside the sofa.

"Miss Allison," he said, "that's the falsest thing I've heard all week." She smiled a little bigger and leaned in.

Morse knew she was trouble. No girl who would be easy to love kissed like that. She was all sharp edges, all pushing back. She wasn't going to let him have his way; she was going to have hers.

Morse woke up the next morning smiling. He looked over at Tuesday, who was snoring just a little bit and had her mouth wide open. Not that he expected her to be a dainty sleeper. Tuesday was not a dainty girl, and Morse was surprised at how much he was liking that.

Tuesday stirred a few minutes after Morse, but it was only to grumble a bit about the birds' singing and pull him closer to use as a pillow. Seconds later she was out again, tracing circles on his ribs, raising goosebumps along his side. She hummed the slightest bit as she fell back asleep, a warm, happy sound, and he could feel her smile against his collarbone.

With Tuesday on his shoulder and the early morning sun turning the room gold, Morse closed his eyes and slept for a few more hours.


	4. Chapter 4

It was past eleven when the phone rang. Morse had gone to bed early, the luxury of a recently solved case, but he groped for the phone by his bedside.

"Hello?" He said sleepily.

"Oh, thank goodness it's you. The number was smudged so I had to guess a bit."

"Tuesday?" He asked, still half-asleep and quite confused.

"Hello, Morse. I'm sorry if I woke you," Tuesday said.

"It's alright. Just my first night off in three weeks. What can I do for you?"

"Well that explains it. I was beginning to wonder if you were avoiding me," Tuesday said. Her voice was light, but Morse could tell it wasn't fully a joke.

"Nasty case. Just solved it this afternoon," Morse told her. "But you know we can't really talk about it." He heard a sigh.

"You know it doesn't have to be like that. I won't print every word you say to me," Tuesday told him. "I know my boundaries." Morse made a noncommittal noise.

"I like you, Morse. And I'm calling you because I couldn't sleep, and I wanted to know if you'd like to see me again."

Morse told her of course he would, but at the moment he really should get to sleep. He knew as soon as he hung up the phone that he'd been too brisk with her. He _did_ want to see her again, but his hurry to get off the phone was bound to have given her the idea that he was just placating her.

Just as he realized he wouldn't be able to fall asleep for a while longer, the phone rang again. He sighed and answered it.

"Just to be clear, Morse," Tuesday said, "You don't have to see me again. I'd very much prefer if you were honest about it."

Morse smiled.

"What are you doing right now?"

Morse left the door on the latch. He was drifting off when he heard it creak open, close, and the lock click. Tuesday took off her coat and shoes as she made her way to the bed. She lifted the covers and got in.

"Good night, Morse."

"Good night, Tuesday," he said as he wrapped an arm around her.

Tuesday woke up disoriented. Morse was still asleep with one arm wrapped around her neck, his hand on her far shoulder. It only took her a few seconds to remember the calls, the invitation, excitedly catching a cab, and quietly climbing into bed. She loved sleeping next to someone else. And she thought she liked sleeping next to Morse more than most. He held on to her so well; but somehow she never felt suffocated. That happened with some men. She could feel their breath on her neck the whole night through, and she never got any rest because of it. But sleeping with Morse felt easy. He was comfortable. Affectionate without being clingy, predictable without being boring.

She wasn't sure how he managed all those things at once.


	5. Chapter 5

Morse climbed the stairs outside Tuesday's flat; when he got to the landing, he could hear pop music from inside.

"It's open," Tuesday shouted when he knocked. Morse opened the door and saw Tuesday at the sink, washing dishes and doing the twist. The corners of his mouth turned up. He considered fighting it, but thought better of it.

"I'll be done in just a minute, Morse," she said, and then began humming along to the record. The Beatles, Morse guessed, although he really couldn't say for sure. Not really his area.

He sat on the sofa while Tuesday finished up. His eyes must have drifted closed. He thought he'd just blinked, but when he opened his eyes the light was different, Tuesday was reading next to him, and there was an afghan tucked around his shoulders. Tuesday looked up at him and smiled.

"Long day?" she asked. Morse smiled and nodded. "Well don't let me keep you. If you need to sleep, you can sleep. I have my book."

Morse wondered how she did that; maybe there were other girls who wouldn't be offended, but he didn't know any of them.

"I'll be alright. Thanks for letting me sleep a bit," Morse said. "We may have to call it an early night, though." Tuesday smiled.

"Fine with me. We can call it a night now, if you'd like," she said with a smirk that Morse thought he might love. But Morse shook his head.

"Let's give it a bit. Tell me about your book," he said. That sent Tuesday off. Her eyes lit up, and she had to set down the book to appropriately gesticulate her enthusiasm. It didn't sound like much to him, a history of free speech in the United States, but Tuesday was mad for things like that. _Damned good reporter, _he thought to himself, not for the first time.

That night, as Tuesday talked about the shoddy ethics of the Mail's rival, Morse put his arm around her and leaned his chin on her shoulder. He drifted away from her talk of the paper and thought instead of the curl of her short hair at the back of her neck; the soft, natural way she smelled; he wondered what it meant that she was the only girl he'd dated this long since he was a student.

He suspected it meant trouble.

He didn't realize Tuesday had stopped talking until she craned her neck to look him in the eyes.

"You haven't been listening at all," she said, without a trace of accusation. It was a fact, and she wanted him to explain before she decided how she felt about it.

"A lot on my mind," he said with a bashful smile. He wasn't sure if Tuesday would make him tell or if she'd let it lie. But she just nodded and leaned back into him. She reached for his hand and wound their fingers together.

"Me too," she almost sighed.

Morse knew they were asking themselves the same question. He hoped they found the same answer.


	6. Chapter 6

It had been nearly two months since Tuesday had needed to interview Morse for a story. She'd been letting Miss Frazil take most of the police stories, because she didn't want to press her luck with Morse, and anyway, she preferred political reporting and the occasional arts piece. Crime wasn't her area.

But the time came when Miss Frazil needed her to make some calls, and Morse was the top of the list.

When he answered the phone and heard her voice, he smiled. But her tone quickly told him this was Business. Remembering the first time she'd given him the third degree, he got serious fast.

Maybe a little bit too serious. He probably wouldn't have been so close-mouthed if Frazil were doing the asking, but he had to watch himself with Tuesday. It was too easy to forget she was the press and that a lot of his work was private police business.

When he got to Tuesday's flat that night, he got a chilly reception. Tuesday was listlessly stirring tomato sauce on the stove. After banging around the kitchen a few minutes longer, she roughly set a plate down in front of Morse.

"Hello, darling," she said, and he knew he was in trouble. He didn't say anything, just picked up his fork.

After a few seconds – although it felt like several minutes – of silence, Tuesday spoke again.

"I hope you know, I would never ask you to favor me. But you have to let me do my job. You can't shut me out at work just because we're together at home," she said.

She didn't sound angry; she was frustrated and trying to explain her point of view. But Morse, who was already feeling poorly about the whole situation, found it a little patronizing.

"I'm not a child. I know how to do my job," he said through his teeth. "And not telling you everything I want to tell you is part of it."

Tuesday rolled her eyes.

"Have you thought about how difficult this is for me? You only have to try to weasel information out of me. I have to decide what I can tell you, what I'm allowed to tell you, and weigh it with what I would tell a different reporter," Morse was working himself up. He didn't realize how difficult it had been to separate his two worlds until the line started to blur. "And then on top of all that, I can't tell you about the things happening to me every day! If the day is too long and sad, I can't tell you why. We have to let it go as 'work,' but I don't know if I can keep this all inside," Morse took a deep breath.

"I see horrific things, Tuesday. People dying, murdered, tortured. I have to get it out of my head. I have to."

Tuesday set down her fork primly and looked him square in the eyes.

"I never asked you not to tell me about your work. I have made it clear I will not write about the things you tell me in confidence, in the context of us. If I have questions for you, I will call you at your desk. Just as I did today," Tuesday was starting to boil just as slowly as Morse had. She wasn't going to crumble just because he made a speech.

"I can't believe you think I would use our personal conversations against you."

Morse wasn't sure, but he thought he heard a crack in her voice. No tears in her eyes, of course. That would be silly; Tuesday didn't cry.

Morse didn't realize how angry he was until he found himself standing up, reaching for his coat, and heading toward the door. Tuesday sat at the table with her arms crossed, staring defiantly away from him.

He was halfway down the stairs when he heard the door to her flat open behind him.

"We're being idiots," Tuesday called after him. "Come back."

It wasn't an apology, but Morse did agree. They were both being idiots, and he wasn't sure whose fault it was; Tuesday's for pushing him, or his own for doubting her.

He came back up the stairs, and Tuesday smiled at him in the doorframe.

"Let's never be idiots again," she said with a cautious fondness.

Morse wrapped an arm around her waist, put a hand at the back of her head, and kissed her thoroughly as he backed her against the doorframe. Tuesday sighed into his mouth and bit his bottom lip just a little too hard – he gasped and pulled away, and she took the opportunity to pull him inside the flat and continue in privacy.

That night, Tuesday fell asleep minutes after her head hit the pillow, tired from their fighting and their making up. But Morse lay awake for close to an hour thinking. He knew this wouldn't be the end of this particular problem; and no matter what Tuesday thought, no matter how hurt she was that Morse shut her out of his work, he knew his side was worse. He was alone in his head, and he couldn't share the darkest parts with Tuesday.


	7. Chapter 7

Tuesday's hands were poised over her typewriter, hovering half an inch above the keys. She stared into the space above and slightly to the left of Dorothea Frazil's head and bit her lip.

"Alright then, Tuesday?" Miss Frazil asked.

Tuesday pulled herself back and nodded. She started typing again, but not as quickly as she had been before she was lost in thought. She paused again and looked thoughtfully at her editor.

"Is it ever hard for you, being a journalist? Hard on your life, I mean. Does it make it hard to be close to people," Tuesday wondered aloud. Miss Frazil could tell the question was meant more for Tuesday herself, even though she addressed Miss Frazil.

"Is this about Morse?" Miss Frazil asked, trying to be gentle. Tuesday hadn't told her exactly what was going on between the two of them, but Dorothea knew a thing or two about people.

"Morse? Why would it be?" Tuesday looked startled for a moment, but then she sighed. "I suppose it is about Morse. Almost everything is about Morse these days."

"You don't sound happy about that," Dorothea said.

"It's wonderful most of the time," Tuesday said. "But it's harder than I thought it would be to date a policeman. I know people say it's hard, and there are conflicts of interest, and separating home and work life is difficult. I know people say that, but I thought things would be easy for us."

Miss Frazil smiled.

"We all think things will be easier for us, don't we? Now, what's the trouble? I'm sure it's nothing that can't be sorted out."

Tuesday looked at her woefully, her big eyes lacking any hope.

"I'm really not sure anymore. Even if I don't use him as a source, he feels like he can't be honest with me about his work. He can't confide in me, can't tell me the things he sees every day," Tuesday said.

"And the worst part is, I'm not sure if he can, either. I don't know which one's more important to me: being a journalist or being loved." Miss Frazil could hear the uncertainty breaking through Tuesday's voice, although she tried to keep her tone even.

"Tuesday, there's no right way to feel. There's no right thing to want. And I know we're all supposed to want to get married and have babies and make our husbands' sandwiches, but if you want to be a reporter more than you want those things, that's alright."

Miss Frazil hoped she was helping; this is what she would want to hear in the situation, and she saw a lot of her younger self in Tuesday. She leaned forward in her desk to get a few inches closer to Tuesday, who was almost crying at this point, twiddling her thumbs and staring at her lap.

"Don't let anyone tell you what should be important to you, even Morse. Especially Morse," Miss Frazil told Tuesday. With that, she started typing again, using her notebook as a reference every few sentences. Tuesday sat still for several minutes, still looking down at her knees. Miss Frazil heard a few sniffles and set her handkerchief on the edge of her desk, close to where Tuesday sat.

"Thank you," Tuesday said quietly, then turned back to her desk. The two women were silent, except for the clacking of their typewriter keys.

The Oxford Mail was spot-on the next day.


	8. Chapter 8

Morse wasn't completely sure how he and Tuesday had gotten to this point; he remembered the first time they met, in the office of the Oxford Mail, and he remembered the lashing she'd given him on that first story, and the first time she kissed him, and the first time he kissed her, but he couldn't for the life of him tell anyone how they ended up here.

He slept at Tuesday's most nights. If he would be working late, he called her, even though she worked into the evening just as often as he did. Often she was reporting on the very same case he was investigating.

He sat at his desk and thought about the first time he saw Tuesday, the first time he held her hand, and the first time he thought he might love her. He was entirely unsure of that last one, but the thought had occurred to him. It had been occurring to him more and more frequently, in fact.

If something like that came to mind every time you saw someone, every time you touched them, did that mean it was true?

Morse was cautious. In all things, but especially in love. The weight of Susan had held him down for such a long time; he was always hesitant to engage in an activity that could very well end the same way.

But he hadn't really been able to help himself with Tuesday. _No_, he thought, _I hadn't wanted to help myself_.

Tuesday had made it very easy for Morse to love her. She was sharp as a tack, demanding, and dangerously ambitious. She was dependable and thoughtful. And she smiled when she found him looking at her.

But Tuesday was not an easy person to live with. Morse was upset by the divide their careers caused them, but she wasn't going to give up reporting, and he would never want her to. And he didn't know if he could give up police work. The police force, absolutely. He thought of leaving almost weekly, of redrafting that first resignation and leaving it on Bright's smug desk. Some days he thought Thursday was the only thing keeping him on the force.

He could give up being a policeman, but he could never give up being a detective. And he knew Tuesday wouldn't want him to.

And there was the dilemma: an incompatible work life. An exceptionally compatible personal life. But Morse wasn't sure if they could find a harmony that wouldn't drive them both mad.

He hadn't spent a great deal of time thinking about the fight since it happened, or about the bigger problem facing the two of them. He'd had cases, and it had been pushed to the back of his mind. But the last few days, he could feel Tuesday pulling away. That worried him.

He was confident that Tuesday liked him just as well as he liked her; that wasn't the question. He wondered what her end game was, though. Was she trying to prove to him that she could be accommodating of his work by not asking questions? Was she trying to isolate him and drive him to talking about the issue? Or was she offering their relationship as a sacrifice, pushing him away so he'd leave and continue his work uninterrupted?

Thursday had been watching Morse at his desk for at least ten minutes. Finally, he saw a change in Morse's eyes, a small shift in his gaze, and knew Morse had come out of it, whatever it was.

"Alright then, Morse?" Thursday asked.

"Yes, sir."

Thursday narrowed his eyes.

"Out with it," he said with finality.

Morse sighed.

"Ah, girl trouble," Thursday said knowingly. "It's that reporter, isn't it? The one with the hair and the trousers."

Morse looked surprised.

"You aren't the only detective around here, Morse. We've all got eyes and ears, and you make an awful lot of calls to the Mail."

Morse swallowed and looked Thursday in the eye.

"Sir, you and Mrs. Thursday," Morse paused. "Do you talk about your work?"

"You know what we say. Leave it at the—"

"Yes, I know," Morse interrupted impatiently. "But I'm not talking about Joan and Sam. Surely you talk to your wife about our cases."

Thursday looked at him grimly.

"Only the worst ones."

Morse nodded and looked to the files on his desk. He wasn't surprised Thursday didn't face the same problem with his wife. They were from different generations, after all, and Thursday's just didn't talk about things the same way.

And Mrs. Thursday was lovely, but she most certainly was not Tuesday Allison.

And Morse wouldn't want it any other way.


	9. Chapter 9

When Morse came to bed that night, Tuesday was already asleep. He clicked off the small lamp she left on for him and tried to lie down without waking her. She was a heavy sleeper, but he'd woken her up before, and he wanted to avoid that tonight. He had a lot on his mind regarding Tuesday.

He was pulling up the covers when he felt her stir.

"Morse?" she asked in a hazy, sleepy voice.

"It's me, go back to sleep," Morse whispered.

"Mm. Goodnight. I love you."

Before she had even finished the last word, she nodded off, her breathing heavy and even again. Morse was still wide awake, possibly more so than he'd been a moment before. He wondered if she knew what she had said, or if it was her half-asleep mind.

Morse made a decision right then. This impossible woman loved him, and he loved her too. And no job was going to keep him from her.

With that new resolve, he closed his eyes and set off to fall asleep. But his mind wouldn't slow, and sleep wouldn't come. He laid in bed for hours, listening to Tuesday's breathing and the small noises she made from inside her dreams. But he was still awake when it grew light out.

Early in the morning Tuesday turned over and splayed an arm over his chest. Morse smiled.

"Tuesday," he whispered, half-heartedly trying to wake her. "Tuesday?"

"What time is it," she said, with the same sleepy voice she'd had late last night. She turned her face to him, squinting her eyes in the light and looking displeased to be awoken.

Morse kissed her on the temple.

"I love you," he said.

Tuesday scrunched up her face even more.

"You woke me up for that? Don't be an idiot, I already knew," she grumbled, then turned around and fell back asleep immediately.

Morse smiled. It seemed that Tuesday had figured it out before he did. At least now they both knew.


	10. Chapter 10

It was nearly 11 p.m. when Tuesday finally looked up from her typewriter, arched her back, and cracked her knuckles. She'd been polishing up a few pieces for the paper all night, working non-stop to get these articles ready for press. She wished she could say she'd lost track of time, but she'd been painfully aware of every minute.

The articles hadn't turned out the way she wanted. She knew who she needed to talk to but couldn't get ahold of them; or the documents that would have pulled it all together were destroyed in a fire; or some other nonsense. It was amazing how many fires destroyed sensitive records. Sometimes she wondered if the less forthcoming government officials threw yearly bonfires, just so they could cry fire without lying.

It had been a trying day. Her head hurt, her feet hurt, and she hadn't had a bite to eat since lunch.

When she got to the flat half an hour later, she was surprised to see Morse still up and reading _King Lear_ on the sofa. She tossed her keys on the table by the door and took off her shoes before she plopped down next to him.

"I never want to write another word as long as I live," she declared dramatically.

Morse set down his book and raised his eyebrows at her.

"I mean it this time," she said petulantly. Morse only raised his eyebrows more, something Tuesday wouldn't have believed possible if she hadn't seen it herself.

"I'll never write another word and we can move to a deserted island and make our living from the sea. You'll fish – no, I'll fish. I bet you're rubbish at it. I'll fish and you can mend my nets," Tuesday thought aloud. "And we'll have twelve children and they won't know a thing about newspapers or murder or opera. We'll be the dullest family in the Atlantic."

"What was that bit about me mending your nets?" Morse asked in the same playful voice.

"Morse, you know I love you, but you couldn't kill a fish in cold blood. You got all woozy when I cut myself chopping an onion," Tuesday said.

Morse sighed and threw his hands up in defeat.

"You're right. I'm not a killer. I could never do that to innocent fish," Morse said. "But if you need any guilty fish locked up, I'm your man."

Tuesday laughed. Her man, indeed. She got up and wandered into the kitchen, remembering how long ago lunch was.

"What did you have for dinner, dear?" she called to Morse.

"In the refrigerator," he told her. She opened up the door and found a plate with a bit of chicken, rice, and green beans.

"Morse, you are the most exceptional man," Tuesday told him. She ate on the sofa while he talked about his Shakespeare. Each reading lead him to something new, and he could get quite worked up sorting out the symbols and themes.

That night Tuesday fell asleep with her head on his knee, curled up on the sofa, Morse still analyzing the play. When he felt her breath slow, he looked down at her.

She shifted against him before she started lightly snoring. Morse shook his head and moved to pick her up and take her to the bed. She woke just a bit during the move, confused, but slept again as soon as he set her down on top of the covers.

When Tuesday woke up, she was still wearing her clothes and lying on top of the sheets.

"Morse?" she asked sleepily. "How did this happen?"

But when she looked over Morse was fast asleep, also on top of the covers, and still wearing his shirt and trousers. That didn't do a thing to clear up Tuesday's confusion. But there was only so much thinking she could do so soon after waking, so she shrugged, pulled a pillow close, and went back to sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

_Thanks for the reviews y'all xx_

Tuesday hummed as she laced up her shoes, and Morse smiled over his crossword puzzle. She used to hum The Kinks more than anything else, but lately she'd been opting for Debussy. Morse wasn't sure what feeling this knowledge brought on exactly, but he thought it might be pride.

She kissed Morse goodbye and left for the office. He was staying in today; he'd gotten roughed up quite badly by a suspect the day before last. Well, suspect wasn't really accurate. He was the man they'd been looking for, and Morse had proven it. Then he'd gotten a beating before Thursday and Jakes arrived to take the brute away.

Tuesday stayed up with him that night when he got home. It wasn't bad enough for a trip to hospital, but it was still bad. He'd needed all the cold compresses available, and the way she stroked his hair made it all much more bearable. She wasn't happy that he'd gotten himself into trouble, but he thought she understood. He hoped she did, because it wasn't going to go away. There would always be a chance he'd come home with a broken nose, or a black eye, or a small stab wound. That was part of the job.

She was marvelously tough, though. Not squeamish at all, didn't let him pretend it wasn't hurting, skeptical of any heroic story he told. Just what he needed to bring him back to the real world after a brawl like that. A good, strong woman who wasn't going to let you fool yourself, let alone her.

He wondered if being a reporter was dangerous. He'd never given it much thought; he was a policeman, there were fists and knives and guns in his line of work all the time. He would never let that stop him. But if Tuesday were facing that kind of thing, even rarely, then he had serious misgivings about the journalism industry.

He wondered about the articles she wrote. Some of them were glorified publicity, yes. Bits about the university and arts pieces and the like. But she did dabble quite successfully in crime stories, and even government corruption when the chance arose. And Morse knew enough about corruption to know there were dangers around every corner.

As he puttered around her apartment that day, he thought of all the times he'd come home with a scrape on his cheek or a limp from being knocked over. He thought about how he'd feel if it were Tuesday, and it gave him a glimpse of how she must have felt all those times he'd come in bruised or worse.

It made a man think about the future.


	12. Chapter 12

They were long past due another work overlap. Morse was standing in the common at the college, keeping Strange company while he patrolled the crime scene perimeter. _How many dons can die in one term?_ Morse thought to himself.

Just about that time, he saw Miss Frazil walking towards him with purpose, and with Tuesday trailing a few feet behind her. Despite her height, Tuesday was a dawdler.

"Morse! Pleasure, as always," Miss Frazil said and held out her hand.

"It's been a while," Morse said, smiling, and shook her hand. "And… Miss Allison, I believe?"

Tuesday rolled her eyes.

"I've told Miss Frazil, and Strange saw us in the pub last week. Don't waste your breath."

Morse laughed and moved to kiss her on the cheek.

"Please, I'm working," she said and put a hand against his chest to push him away playfully. Strange looked away uncomfortably, but Miss Frazil smiled and distracted Morse.

"Can you confirm a few things for us?" she asked him.

"Possibly. What have you got?" Morse had learned to find out what journalists knew before he started handing out information. Best to know where you stand before you start talking.

"We've got a don, Michael Kinnaman, dead in his office. Word is it's foul play," Miss Frazil looked down at her notepad and continued. "Stab wound in the back, looks like he bled out on his Axminster carpet. Looking at the wife and one of his students, aren't you?"

Morse stared at her dumbly.

"How on Earth…" he trailed off. It was impossible that Miss Frazil should know as much as the police at this point. She must have a damn good source.

"Oh, don't look at me," Frazil said. "This was Tuesday's contact."

Morse turned to Tuesday, who shrugged her shoulders.

"A detective sergeant likes me," she said simply, as if that explained it all.

"And he called you the minute he left the scene?" Morse asked. "Wait, do you mean _Jakes_?"

Tuesday put a very deliberate innocent look on her face.

"He knows I'm seeing someone, but he insists on calling," she said matter-of-factly. "And if he's going to call, I insist it's useful."

Morse would never have thought they'd go for the same girl. Tuesday seemed a bit headstrong for Jakes, but who knew? Morse didn't know Jakes that well, not really. They worked together, they shared cases, they fought sometimes. Morse knew his background, but that didn't mean they magically understood each other or got on particularly well.

"We're not done talking about this," Morse told her. "I'll confirm some of it."

He started listing facts, and Miss Frazil started scribbling. Tuesday smiled sweetly at Morse and started making conversation with Strange about the weather.

That night when he got home, he asked Tuesday about Jakes. He wasn't worried, not really, but he wanted to know what he was dealing with.

"I told you, Morse. He calls, tells me what's going on, then usually asks me for a drink at the end of it," Tuesday explained. "I always say no, and I tell him that I'm seeing someone and it's serious, but it's not my responsibility to do anything further than that."

"I can't believe he tells you all those things," Morse said.

"Well, he doesn't have your scruples. Or mine, I suppose," she said. "I'd never ask you to tell me those sorts of things. But if he's going to make a fool out of himself by helping me out, then I'm not going to protest too much."

Morse supposed it made sense. Tuesday was using him as a source, and it was perfectly right on her side. Jakes' side was a different story, sharing that confidential information with a journalist.

There was one point Morse was still unclear on, though.

"Does he know I'm me?" he asked. "I mean, does he know I'm the man you're seeing."

Tuesday shrugged.

"I doubt it. I haven't told him, so if it hasn't gotten around the station, how would he?" she said.

Morse laughed.

"He's not going to like that," he told her.

It was several minutes later when he remembered something she'd said.

"Wait, Tuesday," he said. "It's serious?"

She gave him a look that was half exasperation, half affection.

"Is this how you are with girls you're not serious about?"

Morse thought about it for a moment.

"I don't think I've been like this with anyone before," he told her honestly.

"Well, I think that answers that, doesn't it?"

Morse wanted to tell her that he knew it was serious, that it had been serious for him for a long time, he just hadn't been sure how she felt about it. But instead he ruffled her hair and then kissed her long and hard.


	13. Chapter 13

It had been a long day at the station, but not too hard for Morse. No killers today, no kidnappings or harrowing accidents. He clicked off the light at his desk, put on his coat, and began the walk home.

It was getting cold out; he could see his breath half a step ahead of him. He put his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders, trying to keep as much warmth as he could at his center.

He stopped across the street from the flat; Tuesday was standing outside holding a grocery bag and talking to a man. Morse cocked his head and wondered who it was. Just then he turned around partway – Jakes.

Morse frowned. He wasn't sure he liked the look of this. He hoped Jakes wasn't bothering Tuesday. He began to cross the street just as Jakes leaned in close to Tuesday.

It seemed to Morse like he barely blinked, and then Tuesday was gone. She was inside, and Jakes was walking away from the door.

Morse balled his hand into a fist in his pocket. He stalked across the street and up the stairs. When he got inside, he slammed the door.

"What the hell was that?" he asked Tuesday roughly.

She looked up from the counter where she was folding up an empty grocery bag.

"Saw that, did you? Took a little maneuvering to get away," she said.

But Morse wasn't ready to calm down yet, and he definitely wasn't ready for Tuesday's jokes.

"I thought he knew how things were," Morse said. "What were you doing with him, anyway?"

Morse was more upset than Tuesday had originally thought, she could tell that now. She walked towards him, her voice soft.

"I was at the grocer's and I ran into him outside," she explained. "He wanted to walk me home, and it was dark out, so I let him."

Tuesday put her hands up in front of her at waist height, showing she didn't want to fight. He knew all her physical habits now, and that was one of them. Approach an angry man the way you would a jumping-rope you're about to throw yourself into.

"And he kissed you?" he said, certain he knew the answer.

"Well, he tried," Tuesday said, confused. "I thought you were there, I thought you saw it all? I pushed him away before he could get at me."

Morse breathed out heavily. He wouldn't have thought this would upset him so much, but here he was, acting like any regular man, possessive and suspicious.

"God. I'm sorry, Tuesday."

She bristled.

"What, did you think I was encouraging this? Did you think I was making the rounds of the station, pumping any policeman who would flirt for information?"

Tuesday was the angry one, now.

"You have no idea what this life is like. Watching your back at every moment, wondering which stupid, silly men will try to kiss you even though you've been very clear about your intentions,"

Tuesday was almost shouting, but Morse didn't know how to calm her down. Tuesday had plenty of practice talking him down, calming him after a case, but this didn't happen nearly as often. He was at a loss.

And what was more, he knew she was right.

"I can't believe you thought I would do that. To you, to myself," Tuesday was a combination of hurt and angry with him. He could hear the frustration in her voice, a product of his assumptions, his lack of trust, and the way he'd blown up at her.

Morse mimicked her own actions, putting his hands in the air just in front of his hips, open palms vertical and facing her.

"Tuesday, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. I know you never would," he said to her quietly, slowly coming closer, until his palms landed on her waist. "I'm sorry. I love you."

Tuesday had her arms crossed and looked off to the side, avoiding eye contact with him and refusing to reciprocate his touch.

"Tuesday…" he almost whined. "You know I didn't mean it. If it were anyone but Jakes, I wouldn't have thought…" he trailed off. "You know how mad he makes me. And I know he's been after you for weeks. I didn't mean to upset you."

But Tuesday wasn't softening. Morse rubbed his thumb across her hipbone and moved the other hand up to her cheek.

"Tuesday," he was almost whispering now, getting closer and closer to her. Finally, she broke her stare and looked him in the eye.

"Go home," she said.

Morse dropped his hands and took a step back.

"You want me to leave?"

She uncrossed her arms and moved them to her hips.

"You don't live here. Call me tomorrow," she said frostily.

Morse threw his hands up in the air and turned on his heel.

For the second time that night, the door slammed.


	14. Chapter 14

The next morning, after an uncomfortably cold night in an almost-bare flat, Morse stopped by the Oxford Mail before he went into the station. He opened the door and the bell above him tinkled. Tuesday looked up from her desk, glared, then looked back down at her typewriter.

"I told you to call, not come by," she said.

"I wanted to see you. Tuesday, you know I'm sorry. You know I didn't mean any of it," Morse said sincerely as he sat down across from her.

She stopped typing and looked up at him.

"Go to work. Call me tomorrow," she said.

"Let me come over tonight, Tuesday. Please," Morse said.

"What, chilly at home? No one to keep you warm?"

Tuesday was playing with him. Not maliciously, exactly, but needling. Trying to get a rise out of him. But Morse knew the game, and he wasn't going to play along.

Morse stood up.

"I love you, and I'm not going to let you ruin it," Morse told her. He took a breath and decided to lay his cards out.

"You're upset. I understand why, it makes perfect sense. I'll give you a few days, if that's what you want. But I want you to promise you won't give up on this," Morse said. "I love you. I want to be with you tonight, tomorrow, every night for the next year. I know you want the same thing. Don't get so angry that you forget that."

Tuesday looked back down to her typewriter and slammed the cartridge for a new line.

"You're not doing yourself any favors, making demands," she said coldly. "I'll call you tomorrow."

She turned to her notebook and began attacking the keyboard. Morse knew he hadn't helped things as much as he'd hoped to; but he knew he'd also given her things to think about.

He knew she loved him. If she left over this, over _Jakes_, for Pete's sake… Well, he didn't think she would.

She just needed time to calm down, to move past it.

That night Morse lay awake restlessly. He hadn't stayed at his own flat in so long, he'd almost forgotten about it. The bed wasn't as comfortable, and Tuesday was right. He didn't sleep as well without her there to keep him warm.

It must have been after one when he heard a quiet knock on the door. He was still lying awake, and he almost jumped up to answer it.

When he opened the door, the light from the hall shocked his eyes. Tuesday looked at him, bleary-eyed, wearing a rumpled undershirt, and sighed.

Morse took her by the wrist and pulled her inside. He closed the door behind them, then backed Tuesday up against it.

"This isn't an apology," she said quietly as she put her arms around his neck slowly.

"I know," Morse said, and kissed her gently.

That night they moved slowly, still reeling from the fragility they'd found. Morse was tender with Tuesday. She wasn't sore with him anymore, but the demons were there. He didn't want to wake them, so he whispered sweet things in her ear when he wasn't kissing her.

They slept well, and neither of them was cold at all.

When Tuesday woke up in the morning, she kissed the corner of Morse's mouth before she went to put the kettle on.

He opened one eye just a bit, saw her at the stove, and smiled. _Just like last time_, he thought before he dozed off.


	15. Chapter 15

"Right. I'll tell him," Thursday said into the telephone with a frown.

He looked over at Morse, who was studying a file at his desk. _Damn it all, _Thursday thought. _This could be what breaks him_.

"Morse. Office."

Morse looked up, his eyes wide, and stood to follow Thursday.

"Your girl's got herself into a spot of trouble," Thursday told him.

Morse instantly tensed.

"Is she alright? What happened?"

"That was Frazil on the phone. She went out for an interview early this evening and hasn't been back," Thursday explained. "No chance she decided to take the night off, is there? I've sent Strange by her flat and she's not there."

"No, Tuesday wouldn't," Morse was certain of that. "Who was she meeting? What was she working on?"

Thursday pressed a thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose.

"Well, that's the other bit. Miss Frazil doesn't know," he told Morse. "She'd been working on something for a while, she said, but Tuesday hadn't told her yet what it was."

Thursday looked at Morse expectantly.

"Well, she hasn't told me. We don't talk about work much," Morse shrugged. "Especially if it's dangerous."

"Does she keep a spare set of notes? She would have had hers with her, but maybe she left clues other places," Thursday said.

"There's a pad by the phone, sometimes she gets calls at the flat," Morse said blankly, his mind racing to find a solution to this puzzle.

Thursday nodded and picked up the phone.

"Strange," he said. "Pad by the phone. Look for numbers, names, anything."

They waited in silence for a few minutes, Thursday still holding the phone to his ear. Then Morse could hear a faint voice at the other end, and Thursday's eyes went wide. He hung up the phone.

"Nick Foster. She's been after the gangs," Thursday said and began walking quickly to the door.

Morse drove as fast as he could while still keeping control of the car. They were heading toward the edge of town, where Foster and his men had a den. It masqueraded as a nightclub, but it was a glorified lair. All the men in that business drank there, and girls who wanted shiny things followed them there. More than a few of them never left, strung out on opium or addicted to dangerous men.

Jakes had been working on breaking down the gang for months, and Morse guessed that's where Tuesday got her scoop. And now she was missing. God, he was going to kill Jakes. If Tuesday had a scratch on her, he was going to kill him and every bastard in the damn building.

They were getting close now. The headlights were casting more shadows than light, and Morse saw Tuesday in every single shadow. Next to him, Thursday had a grim look on his face. He looked over at Morse, concerned, but didn't say anything to him. Nothing to say, really. Just something to do.

They were just a few blocks from the spot now. Morse was driving even faster, and although Thursday was gritting his teeth, he didn't tell him to slow down.

They pulled up outside the club and approached the door. Thursday nodded at Morse, reached for the handle with one hand, and drew a gun with the other. Morse looked at him confused. A gun hadn't occurred to him.

They went into the club. The main room was empty and almost dark. Thursday led the way and waved Morse to follow. They were almost at the door behind the bar when it began to open.

Thursday cocked his gun, but Morse put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

Tuesday was backing out of the swinging door slowly, her arms straight out in front of her. When she was far enough out of the door, Morse saw the glimmer of metal. She was pointing a gun at whoever was on the other side of that door.

Thursday and Morse stayed still and quiet. The door closed in front of Tuesday, her back still to the two policemen.

She sighed, lowered the gun, and turned around. She almost jumped out of her skin when she saw the shadows standing there, but almost immediately she recognized Morse.

"Oh, thank God," she said, relieved. "I don't think I could handle another bloody gangster."

Morse looked her over. She was wearing a short, gold dress and her thick eyeliner gave her cat's eyes. She must have been wearing a wig, because there was a big knot of hair on the top of her head. She put the back of her hand up to her lip and winced. Morse hadn't noticed it through her red lipstick, but she was bleeding.

"What the hell happened," he said hoarsely.

"Let's get out of here," Tuesday said. "I've got everything I need, and everything you need to arrest them. Come back for them tomorrow. Just take me home."

Morse looked over at Thursday, who nodded and started toward the door.

"I'll drive," Thursday said.

On the way home, Morse sat in the backseat while Tuesday explained herself.

She'd gotten ahold of one of the girls who lived above the club and wanted to talk.

"I took thorough notes, and she trusts me," she told Morse and Thursday. "She'll testify if she needs to."

But the witness hadn't been enough for Tuesday. She needed to see the operation for herself. Money laundering, prostitution, illegal drugs, and stolen automobile trade.

"Stolen automobiles?" Morse asked, confused by the last.

"Not quite what I expected either," said Tuesday dryly before she continued with the story.

"So I called when I saw the ad in the classifieds. I knew I could get in that way, get past the front. Into the real business," she said.

"And?" Thursday asked her. "Everything confirmed?"

Tuesday smiled.

"I took photographs," she said smugly.

Morse looked at her in disbelief, thinking of the mini dress she was wearing.

"Where's your camera?" he asked her.

She winked at him and reached up to her hair. She rummaged about for a few seconds, then pulled the smallest camera he'd ever seen out of the middle of her bun.

"Fashion can be very useful," she said.

"And the gun?" he asked her. "Did you get that off one of the men?"

Tuesday laughed.

"Morse, I always carry a gun," she told him, as if it were a well-known fact.

Morse's jaw dropped and he looked over at Thursday.

"Well, I suppose we won't have to arrest you for that. Young lady, out on her own, in a dangerous profession," Thursday said. Morse could have sworn he heard admiration in his voice.

That night Morse and Tuesday walked home from the station together. He put his coat around her shoulders.

"You really gave me a scare today, Tuesday," he told her. "I had no idea that's the sort of thing you were up to."

Tuesday shrugged her shoulders.

"I knew you wouldn't have let me go," she said simply.

Morse wondered if she was right. He never wanted to keep Tuesday from doing her job, but this was too far. She had a split lip, for goodness sake!

Remembering the lip, he stopped walking and turned her to face him under a streetlight. He put his hands on her chin and examined the cut. It wasn't too bad, but it was still there. He didn't like that one bit.

"Foster thought I was snooping, so he slapped me," Tuesday said. "Bit of a nasty shock for him when I pulled out my gun."

Morse smiled at her almost shyly.

"Aren't you afraid of anything?" he asked.

Tuesday thought for a moment.

"Not when I'm armed," she said.

Morse laughed and took her arm. They walked the rest of the way in silence, and when they got home Morse tended to her lip and put her to bed.

While she slept, he examined her gun. It was small, silver, and loaded. He took the bullets out and lined them up on the kitchen counter. Only five.

_She shot one_, Morse thought.

He didn't sleep much that night.


	16. Chapter 16

The day after they cuffed the gangsters, one of whom had a gunshot wound to the leg, Tuesday's story ran on the front page of the Mail. Above the fold.

When Morse got to the station, he threw his copy down on Jakes' desk.

"Mind telling me how she got caught up in this?"

Jakes looked up at him in confusion.

"Do you know where we found her? She shot a man, for chrissakes. How could you put her there?"

Jakes stood up from his desk and looked down at Morse.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said stubbornly.

Morse's eyes narrowed.

"Just know she could have died. And it would have been your fault," Morse spit the words out then walked away.

Jakes sat back down and breathed heavily. Had he given Tuesday the tip off on Foster's gang? He couldn't even remember. Anyway, why was Morse so broken up about it?

That night, Jakes decided to stop by Tuesday's place to check on her. See how she was holding up, if she needed anything. Maybe ask her what the hell she'd been thinking, going into that club by herself.

He knocked on Tuesday's door and waited on the landing. When he heard footsteps he stood up straight and tightened his tie. But it wasn't Tuesday who came to the door.

"Morse?" Jakes asked, confused. "What are you doing here?"

Morse looked at him as if it were obvious.

"I live here," he said.

Just then Tuesday padded down the hall in her nightgown.

"Morse? Who's there?"

"It's work, Tuesday. Go back to bed," Morse said over his shoulder.

Jakes heard a yawn and feet retreating.

"Hurry back, it's chilly," she said as she walked away.

Jakes stared at Morse.

"You? You're the serious fellow?" Jakes couldn't believe it.

Morse squared his shoulders and set his jaw.

"Yeah, I suppose I am," he said. "What's it to you?"

Jakes threw his hands in the air and took a step back.

"You've got to be kidding me."

He was frustrated. Morse could understand why, but he needed to keep it down.

"Listen to me," Morse said as he took a step closer to Jakes. "You do whatever it is you do, but know that if Tuesday ever gets hurt again because of you, I will destroy you. I will make you regret every tip, every phone call, every bloody case you've ever worked. I will dismantle you one sad brick at a time."

Jakes looked at Morse with regret in his eyes. He nodded, showing Morse he understood, and turned to leave.

He was at the bottom of the stairs when he turned around.

"Morse, you have to know I never meant…"

"I know," Morse interrupted. "But it happened, didn't it?"

When Morse came to bed, Tuesday put her arm around him and rested her head on his shoulder.

"Don't be too hard on him," she said. "He didn't send me there. I made that choice."

Morse shook his head.

"He put you in danger. I can't just let that go."

"I put myself in danger, Morse. And need I remind you, I handled myself quite well," Tuesday said.

"Look, I know you mean well and I understand perfectly why you're upset, but I'm an adult," she said. "If I get into scrapes like that, it's not because someone dragged me there. No one tricked me into it. I knew what I was doing, I was prepared, and I got out just fine."

Morse pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"You just scared me so much," he said.

Tuesday snuggled in a little closer.

"Next time I'm planning on infiltrating a drug ring I'll let you know," she whispered before kissing him on the edge of his jaw and drifting off to sleep.


	17. Chapter 17

"Where are we going, Morse?" Tuesday asked from the passenger seat.

Morse smiled and kept his eyes on the road.

"It's a surprise," he said. He could feel Tuesday rolling her eyes.

He stopped the car in a country lane a good distance out of town. Tuesday looked at him and waited.

"Well? Is this it?"

Morse nodded. He went to the boot and pulled out a brown paper bag filled with something that clinked. He nodded his head, indicating that Tuesday should follow him.

They waded into the knee-high grass, towards a wooden fence that ran perpendicular to the road. Morse pulled a brown liter bottle out of the bag and balanced it on top of the fence. He lined up six in a row, all about two feet apart.

Tuesday was starting to get the idea. Morse took her hand and pulled her back a few dozen yards. He pulled her pistol out of his coat pocket and handed it to her.

"If you're going to be carrying it, you should at least know how to shoot," he told her.

He lined her up facing the fence and stood behind her, his body flush to hers. Their arms rose together until the gun was straight out in front of them.

"Alright, it's important to not to move your hand. Just your trigger finger," Morse told her. "It doesn't feel natural, but that's how you get accuracy."

Tuesday nodded. She spread her feet to shoulder width and took aim. Morse kept his hands on her shoulders, holding her steady.

She shot. No breaking glass.

"Not bad," Morse said. "But you're over-compensating. It won't fall as much as you think, it's moving too fast for that."

Tuesday took aim again. This time she hit the fence just below the bottle. Morse smiled.

"See? Getting better already."

Tuesday gritted her teeth and took aim.

This time, there was a crash after the gunshot.

"Well done, Tuesday!"

But before Morse could even get the sentence out, she'd shot again. And again, and again.

Four of the bottles were down. Tuesday was out of bullets.

Morse stared in disbelief, still pressed behind her.

She looked over her shoulder at him.

"How'd I do, Detective Constable?"

"How did you…" Morse began, but Tuesday interrupted him.

"You're a very good teacher," she said.

Later that night, Tuesday turned to Morse on the sofa.

"I was an archer in school," she told him.

Morse looked up from his book with a confused expression.

"I got bored with bows and arrows," she explained. "So my father bought me a revolver and took me to a range."

"You must have practiced a lot," Morse said. "You're as good a shot as I am, and I only got that way with hours and hours."

"It came in handy when I lived in London after school," Tuesday said. Morse could tell she was a little hesitant to continue the story.

"I was in a rough neighborhood. Morse…" she looked at him nervously. "The other day, that wasn't the first time I've shot someone."

She looked at him from under her eyelashes, waiting for his response. She didn't want him to think differently of her because of this.

"What happened?"

"A bloke followed me home from a club. Wouldn't take no for an answer," Tuesday said. She reached for the pack of cigarettes that was on the end table and put one between her lips. When she raised the lighter, her hands were shaking.

She took a few drags before she started again.

"He cornered me two blocks from my flat. He had a pocket knife," Tuesday almost laughed as she exhaled a cloud of grey.

"I had a gun. Not a very even match. I shot him in his right shoulder and called the police. They let me off, of course. Didn't even book me."

Tuesday looked at Morse. He was frowning, but not at her. At some point near her knee. He looked more worried than anything.

"I haven't needed it again since the other night," she said. "I'd hoped it was retired permanently, but. Needs must."

Tuesday took a drag from her cigarette and looked away from Morse. He took the hand that wasn't holding the smoke in one of his.

"I'm glad you had it with you," he said. "Both times. And I'm damn glad you know how to shoot it."

Tuesday looked at Morse and smiled. She stubbed out her cigarette and moved her spare hand to his neck.

"Thank you for taking me out there today. That was very sweet."

Morse ducked his head and smiled at her slyly.

"You had me at the beginning. You missed those two shots deliberately, didn't you?"

Tuesday smiled guiltily and shrugged.

"I'm full of surprises," she said.

Morse let out a short laugh and closed the distance between them.

Tuesday kissed Morse as though her life depended on it. At that moment, he was the only thing keeping her whole, tethering her to a world where girls carried guns, and used them, when they went to nightclubs.

His hands left trails of heat on her skin, burning life into her. He tugged on her knees and she knew he meant her to lay them across his. He leaned her back onto the sofa and she worked on the buttons of his shirt.

Tuesday looked into his grey eyes as they both caught their breath. They plunged back in, and Tuesday decided it was her life's mission to kiss each and every one of the freckles that dusted his nose and shoulders.

"I love you," she whispered between kisses. "I love you I love you I love you."


	18. Chapter 18

That night Tuesday found herself wrapped up in Morse. After nights of inching apart, something she found perfectly natural in a constant bedmate, he came back to her side of the bed with a vengeance. As Morse slept with his head on her chest and his legs tangled with hers, Tuesday looked at his freckled shoulders, listened to his steady breath, and thought about the last few days.

Sometimes Morse scared Tuesday. He could turn positively feral; there was something wild about him when he was scared or upset. She could see it in his eyes before he told off Jakes; she could feel it in his desperation the night that he and Thursday found her at the club.

It was too powerful for one man, especially one who spent so much of his time in calm thought. Sometimes she wondered if that anger and fear was always there, bubbling just underneath the surface of him. It could be the thing that kept him going, fueling his work on cases, his family life, even their relationship.

Tuesday didn't think she liked the sound of that. She wanted Morse to be more than happy; she wanted him to be at peace. As controlled as he was most of the time, she suspected he was a raging storm on the inside.

Tuesday shook her head slightly. She was overanalyzing. Of course she wanted the best for Morse, she loved the bloody fool. More than she'd ever loved anyone, she thought. Not that there had been much of note before him. A handful of flings, really. Nothing to write home about.

She loved him, and the ferocity was a good thing so much of the time – it was why she was so close to drifting off to sleep now, it was why she smiled the smile of a well-bedded woman, and it was why he sometimes gave her that look that made it hard to breath.

Morse was more than a temper or a wounded bird, he was a man who felt things. Good, bad, he felt them. And he made Tuesday feel them, too.


	19. Chapter 19

The last bad case had been almost two months earlier. Morse hadn't told Tuesday the specifics, but she knew it was bad. There were children involved, and something about the police force that he wouldn't tell her. She wondered if someone was mixed up in the whole thing, but she didn't want to pry. Not until it was solved.

One night, a week or so into the case, she woke when the door opened. When Morse was working a difficult case, he often stayed at the station. Tuesday hadn't been expecting him home. She waited for him to come to bed, but he never arrived and she didn't hear him moving around the flat.

She reluctantly pushed off the covers and hissed quietly as she put her feet to the cold floor.

Morse wasn't in the living room, or the kitchen. Tuesday found him sitting against the front door, his head in his hands. She slid down the door to sit next to him.

"I was so close," he said, his voice breaking. He shook his head in his hands, and Tuesday put an arm around him. She shushed him in the most comforting way she knew how and wrapped her arms around him. He leaned into her and cried.

Tuesday wasn't sure what he needed, so for the time being, she held him close, running her hand over his shoulder and rocking slightly.

Morse sniffed and pressed his forehead into the nook between her ear and collarbone.

"I don't know if I can keep this up," he said.

Tuesday's hands stilled, and she grasped him by the shoulders and pushed him away so that she could look him in the eyes.

"You're an incredible detective," she told him. "You will find whoever did this."

Morse nodded, biting his lip and sniffing back tears.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Tuesday smiled.

"I wouldn't say it if it weren't the truest thing I know," she said. "Let's get you to bed."

Tuesday stood up and pulled Morse with her. She put his arm around her shoulder and he leaned on her as they walked to the bedroom. Morse sat down on the edge of the bed, and Tuesday took off his tie and shoes.

Ordinarily she wouldn't be caught dead taking such careful care of a man, but this was Morse. And he needed her. He needed someone.

Morse's eyes closed, but he was still mostly dressed and sitting up in bed.

"Stay with me just a minute more," Tuesday said as she began unbuttoning his shirt. "We're almost through."

Finally Tuesday guided him down, and Morse fell asleep almost instantly. But not before he'd whispered something.

"I love you."


	20. Chapter 20

Morse stared out the window of the train and stubbornly avoided eye contact with the girl who sat across from him. She had been looking up from her book at him the whole ride so far.

He knew what that look meant, and he wanted no part of it.

So he looked at the landscape spreading out before him. He knew the ride well, and the countryside even better. He'd taken this line sometimes when he was first at Oxford; not often, because he didn't go home often. But sometimes, when Joyce had needed him.

And Joyce was why he made the trip again. She wanted him to come up and help sort through his father's things. It didn't sound like much to Morse, but it was important to Joyce, and she promised Gwen would be gone for the weekend.

So here he was, halfway home at dusk on a Friday evening, resolutely ignoring the teenager making eyes at him.

As it grew darker, Morse was looking less at the land and more at the reflection in the window. The girl across from him wasn't turning the pages of her book often enough, he noticed. Then he turned to his own face.

Not a bad face, he thought. A few too many freckles for his taste, but he knew someone who disagreed. He ran a hand over his head, trying in vain to smooth down a patch of hair sticking straight up.

He thought of himself at 16, pencil-thin and as precocious as he could be. Damn good thing he'd grown since then, he thought. He almost winced as he thought of some of the stupid, pretentious things he'd said. He'd meant them, too, which made it even worse.

Smarter than the world. Skinnier than a greyhound. Thank God life had gotten better since then.

About the time Morse's train was pulling into the station, as he was stepping onto the platform and giving his sister a hug, Tuesday opened the door to the flat, hung her keys on the hook by the door, and looked at the dark, empty space. She put her hands on her hips and smiled.

A night on her own sounded nice.

She read most of the evening, spread out on the sofa like she was made of gelatin. When she packed off to bed, she rolled herself up in the comforter and smiled to herself, pleased that she didn't have to share. She turned off the bedside lamp and planted herself in the exact center of the mattress.

Tuesday wondered what Morse was up to; she hadn't met Joyce, had barely heard about her, really. She hoped it was a good trip for him. He didn't go home much, and didn't seem to mind. Tuesday was glad someone missed him and wanted him to visit.

As she thought of Morse, she wriggled in her blanket cocoon and made a pleased noise. _Just me tonight_, she thought. _I can sleep however I want, and as late as I want, and not feel that hot breath on my neck all night_.

It wasn't that Tuesday didn't like sleeping with Morse – that was absolutely not the case. But she occasionally did remember the days when she had no one's comfort but her own to consider.

Tuesday closed her eyes and hummed as she began to drift off.

She was almost asleep when she caught a whiff of him on the sheets. Tuesday smiled and snuggled into the smell. But the more she sought it out, the farther it slipped. She could find it every few minutes, but it stubbornly refused to stay put.

Tuesday spent several minutes reordering the pillows, shifting the blankets, and changing her position. Finally, she found one that worked – if she stayed just so, she could smell Morse almost as if he were here with her. It was just a shame that it involved burying her head between two pillows.

If she suffocated, it would all be his fault. Leaving her like this for two whole days.

She'd have to make sure he knew how much she missed him, and maybe if she was lucky he'd take her along next time.

Morse caught a mid-morning train back to Oxford on Sunday. He was carrying one more bag than he'd left with, containing the last pieces of his father's life.

Tuesday lounged on the sofa, one leg thrown over the back and the other dangling to the floor. She stared at the ceiling, essentially waiting for Morse – although she would never admit it.

When she heard the door at the street open, she lifted her head. When she heard steps on the stairs, she sat up. When the steps stopped on the landing, she strained to hear keys being fished out of a pocket. Tuesday jumped up, opened the door, and bundled Morse up in the biggest hug she could manage.

"I missed you too," Morse said, a bit muffled by Tuesday's hair and sweater. She pressed a kiss to his neck, a compromise so that she wouldn't have to loosen her hold on him.

Morse put his arms around Tuesday's hips and pulled her up. She gave a hop and wrapped her legs around his waist, and he kissed her as he carried her into the flat.

Tuesday wasn't sure Morse could keep this up. She was not a small person. She giggled nervously as she hooked her ankles together and clutched her arms around his neck.

After crossing the apartment, Morse set Tuesday down on the kitchen counter and stood between her knees as she kissed him softly.

"I couldn't sleep without you," she whispered.

Morse smiled against her mouth and ran a hand through her hair.

_Marry me_, he thought, and then inwardly froze.

_Oh no_.

But Morse soon forgot the worried part of the thought. He was a bit distracted by Tuesday, who insisted on kissing him thoroughly.

Later that afternoon, the two of them lay in bed. Morse found himself studying a crack in the ceiling, while Tuesday dozed on his chest.

She shifted a bit, but she kept her eyes closed.

"It's amazing how quickly the smell of you faded. I want it on my sheets forever," she said. "Never leave me?"

He could hear the uncertainty behind the question. It was playful, the phrasing, but it had deep roots.

Morse nuzzled Tuesday's nose, coaxing her mouth towards his.

"Alright," he said between kisses.

_Still to come: decisions, drama, and more drama... Thanks for bearing with me through the break. _


	21. Chapter 21

Morse thought about that night for weeks, turning it over in his mind. What he'd caught himself thinking, and what Tuesday had said to him. He never thought he'd want to get married, really; it didn't seem like his lot in life. But here she was, this fantastic, impossible woman, and what other option did he have? He loved her more than he thought he'd ever love another person. He wanted to be with her, if not forever, then indefinitely. He couldn't see an end, and he didn't want to.

Those were the reasons people got married, weren't they?

And then, when he thought he'd pieced it all together, made solid, logical steps, he looked down at his hands. He imagined a band on his left hand, and his stomach did a flip.

_Well_, he thought. _That decides it_.

So he started thinking about how to do it.

Tuesday wouldn't want anything showy; he knew that much. No bended knee. She'd want to choose her own ring, if she wanted one at all, so no black box. No diamond, he guessed. Something smaller, dearer for Tuesday. And what was he, a schoolgirl dreaming about his wedding day? He shook his head and smiled at his own small joke.

He was sitting at his desk, twirling a pen between his right forefinger and thumb. His chin rested on his left hand as he leaned forward lazily, lost in the thought.

God, he couldn't think about her in a white dress. That would kill him.

Morse prided himself on being a patient man. But in this matter, he proved to be quite brash. He hadn't been this nervous since his days as a student, when he could sense he didn't belong, and still cared. In the years since, he'd lost the desire to fit in, the sense of shame he used to carry for being a bit odd. But it had returned, in a way. It was the anxiety of waiting for the perfect moment.

He wasn't worried, though. He knew she loved him as much as he loved her; he knew she'd say yes.


	22. Chapter 22

Tuesday sat at her desk and rested her chin on her fist as she stared out the window. Rain was coming down in sheets outside, and Tuesday sighed. She liked the rain, but she didn't like walking home in it. Not one bit. Couple that with an almost-broken umbrella that kept turning inside out, and Tuesday was not looking forward to five o'clock.

When the time came around, she put on her rain jacket and galoshes and reached for her umbrella. She braced herself before she stepped outside the front door of the Oxford Mail.

When she got back to the flat, she was predictably soaked. Her umbrella lay abandoned on a sidewalk halfway between the office and home; she'd thrown it down, frustrated that it seemed to be doing more harm than good.

Morse heard the door slam from the kitchen. He was standing over the stove, stirring a pot of tomato soup.

"Tuesday?" he called to her, and turned as she came into the kitchen.

He took one look at her and stifled a laugh.

"What on earth happened to your umbrella?" he asked.

Tuesday took off her mac and threw it onto a chair as she pulled a face.

"It wasn't very good at being an umbrella anymore," she said.

Morse put down his spoon and moved towards Tuesday. He kissed her on the forehead and pulled her sweater, sopping wet after the walk, over her head. He wrung it out over the sink, then headed toward the bathroom. Tuesday could hear him drawing a bath.

After soaking in the hot water for half an hour or so, Tuesday felt much better about the day. The cold rain had put her in a mood, but it was nothing a little care couldn't fix. And Morse was very good at caring.

He came to sit next to her as she sat in the bath. They chatted about their days, Morse talked about his latest case, and Tuesday complained about the lack of earth-shaking news.

"It's all burglaries and concerts," she said. "No offense." Morse smiled.

"None taken. Here's hoping there're more concerts than burglaries."

Tuesday smiled at him and slid down the back of the tub, shaking her hair out in the almost-opaque water. When she came back up to the surface, Morse had an odd, uncertain look on his face.

"What is it, love?" she asked.

Morse looked at her and bit his lip. What could he be nervous about? Tuesday wondered and waited with a furrowed brow.

"Would you like to marry me?"


	23. Chapter 23

Tuesday stared at him.

After a moment of silence, Morse looked away.

"Alright, I suppose that's my answer," he said, his voice attempting levity.

Tuesday reached out of the tub and touched his cheek with her fingertips.

"You surprised me," she said. "And really, I'm not sure. I would need to think about it."

Morse nodded.

"I understand. We can talk about it, if you'd like," he told her.

Tuesday pursed her lips.

"I need to think about it for now," she said. "But we'll talk about it soon."

Morse nodded, smiled a tight smile at her, and stood up.

"I'll head to bed, then."

Tuesday stayed in the bath a few minutes longer, until her fingers had pruned so deeply she couldn't have picked them out of a lineup. She thought about what Morse had said. She'd be doing that a lot, she imagined.

_What to do_, Tuesday thought. _I should have seen this coming_.

They'd never talked about marriage, but I suppose this was one way to start the conversation. Tuesday didn't know if she wanted to get married; for a woman so committed to her job, it could spell disaster. She'd seen too many talented journalists turn in their credentials the moment their boyfriend proposed. She didn't want to be that. She didn't want to give up any part of herself – and she knew Morse would never ask her to – but adding another person into your consciousness led there. She knew it led there, no matter what you promised yourself.

When she crawled into bed, the lights were off and Morse's eyes were closed, but she could tell from his breathing that he wasn't asleep.

"Morse," she said quietly. "Do you really want to be someone's husband?"

Morse turned on his side to face her.

"No," he said. "I want to be your husband."

Tuesday stared at him.

"That is the best thing you could have possibly said," Tuesday said as she climbed on top of him. "This isn't a yes," she said, and she leaned down to kiss him.


End file.
